


The Photograph

by BuddysImpala



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: Hurt Phin, M/M, My Poor Boys, Oops, Phin cries, SO, Thanks Guys, also bc of the lack of backstory in TGS, barlyle - Freeform, bisexual circus dads, so does Phillip, this was partially inspired by real Barnum's autobiography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-07 00:05:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14659053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddysImpala/pseuds/BuddysImpala
Summary: P.T. has one item that was saved from his childhood.(former title: A Mother's Love)





	The Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> A little belated thing for Mother's Day!

**Word Count: 4,300  
**

**Title: The Photograph**

**\---**

_"Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word." —George R.R. Martin_

It was raining.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

P.T. hated rain. He preferred the sun - the brighter, the better. It didn't storm, but the drizzle outside was almost worse. Thunderstorms had personality, at least - low thunder that rumbled and roared, lightning that lit up the room - no matter where you were - for the briefest of instants. But the rain outside was simply... mush. It was lazy, dreary rain that served no purpose other than to muddy the world and cast the Barnum home in a gray, depressing light.

P.T. was missing.

That was the second sign something was wrong.

The ringmaster was loud. The ringmaster was loud and full of life and seemed to never tire, not even for a moment. Phillip loved it. Phillip loved _him_. He loved the way P.T. always felt the need to brighten the little world they lived in with bigger-than-life ideas. He loved the way the ringmaster himself radiated love - whether it was for himself (in a way that some people would mistakingly describe as selfish), the circus troupe, or Phillip. Whether they were together in bed - Phillip moaning underneath the older man, either with love and soft caresses, or in a way that was absolutely filthy as the ringmaster forced him to beg for the ultimate ecstasy - or whether it was through the soft, casual touches and loving words that P.T. would rain upon him throughout the day. P.T. loved Phillip in a way that left him overcome with emotion - he loved him in a way that, for just a moment, made Phillip forget the hellish background in which he had been raised.

P.T. loved Phillip in a way that made him believe he was _worthy_ of it.

P.T. was loud. P.T. was full of life. P.T. never failed to make anyone and everyone around him feel like the single most important person in the world.

But it was raining.

It was raining and P.T. was missing.

The Barnum home was massive, but it seemed even bigger with the dark, lonesome shadows that the gray clouds outside cast onto the walls. Phillip shivered - they'd woken up to the rain (for once, they'd woken at the same time - P.T. usually rose much earlier than he) and Phillip had been the first to go downstairs to prepare breakfast. P.T. had promised to join him in just a few minutes, but several had gone by and there was still no sign of the man that had swept the young playwright off his feet.

"Phineas?" Phillip called. His voice rattled and bounced off the walls, almost seeming to echo.

No answer.

Phillip shivered again and wrapped his arms around himself as he walked. He wore but a pair of pajama pants, his robe, and a pair of slippers. Perhaps he was imagining things, but he could have sworn there was a draft coming in with the rain. He thought, maybe, that P.T. had left a window open - though, that seemed very out of character for the brilliant circus king. He always busied himself with new ideas, always carried an excited energy about him, but that didn't mean the man was sloppy. In fact, he was anything but. Sure, his desk might be messy, he might occasionally button up his shirt the wrong way, but he wasn't sloppy. Personal care was one thing, but when it came to the betterment of others - whether it was the circus or Phillip - he handled everything with great care. He would never leave a window open because that could mean a protestor had opportunity to break in, or Phillip could catch a cold, or—

Or Phillip was overreacting. A window wasn't open because there wasn't a draft and he had only imagined a brush of cold air because _where the hell was Phineas._

And why couldn't he shake the dark, unsettling feeling that nagged at the back of his mind, insisting something was wrong?

"P.T.? Phineas?" he called again.

Just as before, there was no answer.

Almost subconsciously, Phillip paused in the middle of the hallway and let his gaze drift up the long, sprawling staircase. His eyebrows furrowed together as he stared up to the second floor. Now that he thought about it, had he even heard the man come downstairs?

Still looking upwards, Phillip approached the staircase. He called the ringmaster's name again, but, just as before, got no answer. He climbed the stairs and found the upstairs to be just as dark - if not darker, even - and silent as the floor below.

He tried their room, but P.T. was gone. Their bed was unmade, just as Phillip had left it before going downstairs, and P.T.'s robe was gone, too. So he'd moved, at least. But, again, Phillip couldn't remember hearing him come downstairs - he had to be up here somewhere.

He passed several closed doors - the rooms of Caroline and Helen, who had left with their mother after the Jenny Lind incident. Little had they known, then, that it would be Phillip the ringmaster turned to, not another woman.

Caroline and Helen were still permitted to visit on some weekends - only then would their doors be open, their rooms filled with the sounds of laughter. Phillip and P.T. were careful to stay apart on those days - most of the time, Phillip would find it safest to simply go back to his now mostly-abandoned apartment. P.T. also got to see the girls during nights that Caroline had ballet recitals, which brought back memories of the place where he had laid eyes on Phillip Carlyle for the first time.

Other doors were closed, leading only to empty rooms - the guest bedroom (where Phillip "stayed" on the rare occurrence that he decided to stay during one of the girls' visits), the library, the playroom. He only paused once coming to the closed door at the very end of the hall.

P.T.'s home office.

The door was closed, just as all of the others before were closed, but it did not simply swing open to reveal an empty room. Instead, when Phillip tested the doorknob, he found the door to be locked.

Breath hitching in his throat, Phillip rose his fist to knock. However, he hesitated, just a moment - he was sure P.T. would be fine, just absorbed in his work, but... suppose something really was wrong? Did he really want to alert P.T. of his presence, give the man a chance to hide or clean up or—

Or...what? What exactly did Phillip think he was doing in there?

Staring at the door for another moment, Phillip's hand dropped to his side. He stood on tiptoe - how humiliating it was sometimes, to need to extra boost to reach things, but this time he didn't have the ringmaster's teasing words and pleasant laughter ringing in his ears - and felt above the doorframe. His fingers wrapped around the object he was in search of - a key - and he lowered himself flat onto his feet once more.

He wondered, perhaps, if P.T. had forgotten about the spare key. They'd agreed upon it mutually - the man had a tendency of getting lost in his ideas for hours at a time and when he locked himself in his office, as he often did, Phillip needed a way to bring him back to reality, if necessary. Sometimes a simple rattling of the doorknob, a mere presence in the room was enough, but other times - well, sometimes Phillip had to bait the man away from his work with more... pleasing measures.

The doorknob twisted, successfully unlocking with the key, and Phillip pushed the door open. He immediately shivered upon entering the room and, eyes flickering over to the wall, discovered that there was, in fact, a window open.

The next thing Phillip noticed was P.T., hunched over in his seat and staring at something down on his desk.

Phillip sighed heavily (though, secretly, he was actually relieved) and he rolled his eyes as he crossed the room to close the window. The frame around it was wet with raindrops and he shivered again at the cold breeze that came through, chilling the entire room. "Are you telling me you neglected to join me for breakfast over the matter of paperwork?"

P.T. was silent.

Phillip frowned as he turned toward the ringmaster. He leaned against the wall and rested a hand on his hip, almost unaware that he was doing it. "Phineas?"

The ringmaster shuddered - the only sign that he even acknowledged Phillip was in the room - but remained silent. Phillip's hand fell from his hip and he strode over to the ringmaster, delivering a light touch to the older man's shoulder.

P.T. shrank away and turned his back on the playwright.

Phillip's lips parted in shock and he fumbled for words. "Wh - What's wrong? Did I...do something?"

His brain wracked for anything he could have done to offend the ringmaster, but came up totally blank. P.T. wasn't one to hold grudges - surely he would have told Phillip if something he'd done bothered him?

"Phineas... talk to me? Please?"

He knelt down in front of the ringmaster - a familiar position, though this time it was out of concern, not lust. P.T. continued to stare down at the object in hand - Phillip could tell that it had to be a photograph or painting or drawing of some sort, though he wasn't sure of what. The ringmaster jerked away again when he reached out, but not before he saw the tears shining on the older man's face.

"Phineas, are you... crying?"

Voice clipped with alarm, the worry and fear that had dwindled away upon finding the ringmaster came back full force. Phillip steadied himself on his knees at P.T.'s side, and rested a hand on the older man's thigh. Now that he had _seen_ the tears, he could _hear_ them - the noise was barely there, but P.T.'s breath hitched with near-silent sobs and his chest trembled with the effort of holding them back. Confusion overwhelmed the younger man.

"Please," he whispered again. His voice cracked and made him cringe - he sounded nothing like Phillip Carlyle, the man with the voice that P.T. often teased as being 'too posh.' "Talk to me."

Without even realizing it, Phillip had started to trace small circles into P.T.'s thigh. The strong muscle underneath quivered and the ringmaster seemed to have stilled, but tension held tight throughout his entire body. Phillip looked down at the floor, then up at the ringmaster again as he whispered, "I don't like seeing you like this."

P.T.'s sigh was loud, almost thunderous compared to how silent he'd been up until that point. He tried to hold back, but his voice was thick with emotion as he choked out, "You - You weren't supposed to."

Tears brimmed in Phillip's eyes - it killed him that P.T. thought he had to hide his emotion. He didn't know what was bringing the ringmaster such distress, but he rose to his feet and slipped behind P.T.'s chair. The ringmaster gasped when he felt the young man's strong hands on his neck and shoulders, slowly massaging, and he tried to pull away, to stand, but Phillip pressed a hand to the front of his shoulder, pushing him back. He didn't have any strong force from his angle, but P.T. fell back anyway. His cries became louder and his body shuddered with them more openly. Phillip's gut twisted, and he peered down at the item still clutched in P.T.'s hands.

It was a photograph. It was yellowed and faded with age - it had to have been taken using the earliest of cameras - but the woman in it stared up at him with a sweet face and eyes that were not unkind. It was hard to tell, but she appeared to have P.T.'s wavy locks of hair.

"Who is that?"

Phillip's voice was a hum in P.T.'s ear, like the most delectable drop of honey. P.T. sighed again and closed his eyes, lashes wet with tears. He slumped in his chair, startling Phillip.

He'd never seen the man look so... defeated.

"Her name was Irene," P.T. murmured in a voice so quiet, so unlike himself, that Phillip strained to hear him. "She is - _was_ \- my mother. She...passed when I was a boy."

His words took a moment to sink in.

"Oh, Phin," Phillip breathed. His hands fell from P.T.'s shoulders and he shuffled to P.T.'s front once more. He lowered himself to the ground again, grasping P.T.'s hands in his. "She's still your mother," he insisted, rubbing the palm of P.T.'s hand with his thumb, "no matter how or when she passed away."

P.T.'s lower lip quivered, like a boy, and he laughed at himself as the tears came more rapidly. He wanted to wipe the offending wetness from his cheeks, but Phillip still grasped the older man's hands in his.

"It's ridiculous," the ringmaster muttered, shaking his head. "I'm a grown man. She's been gone longer than you've been alive. I can't - I shouldn't be—"

His voice broke and he broke his hands free of Phillip's hold, covering his face. The office door was still open and his sobs carried down the hallway of the otherwise empty mansion.

Phillip felt guilt as he sat there and watched a man fifteen years his senior cry. P.T. knew all about his less than ideal childhood - his father who beat him and his mother who never made an effort to stop him. _She_ certainly wasn't worth crying over, and never would be, not even when she died.

He'd known P.T. must have had a mother - by logic, if nothing else - but the ringmaster never spoke of her and Phillip had... never bothered to ask. Perhaps he'd convinced himself that since _his_ parents were terrible, all parents had to be.

But then, weren't Caroline and Helen always filled with life whenever they saw their father? P.T. was not a terrible parent - far from it. In fact, Phillip would even consider him the epitome of what a good parent should be. He didn't find it surprising that P.T. had been blessed with an excellent father, who tried to provide as much as he could for his son, even while living on the streets and on his deathbed. By that logic, then, he shouldn't have been surprised to know that P.T.'s mother was an equally wonderful woman - a woman who _was_ worth crying for.

And yet, he had never bothered to ask.

"Oh God, Phineas," Phillip choked. He gently took the photograph from P.T. - he let Phillip have it without protest - and stared down at the face of the woman who had given P.T., the loud, incredible, _beautiful_ man that he loved, life. She stared up at him with eyes that sparkled, almost as if hinting that she knew of his love for her son. He shivered - not from the cold, this time - and set the photograph on the ringmaster's desk.

When he turned to P.T., he settled himself in the ringmaster's lap and pulled him closer. P.T. buried his face in Phillip's shoulder and Phillip struggled not to let the older man see his own tears. He felt terrible for never realizing how much he missed her, holding back his feelings even after all this time, and he ran his fingers through P.T.'s hair in an attempt to soothe him.

"Tell me about her," he encouraged in a whisper. He kissed P.T.'s forehead as the man looked up, his eyes red-rimmed.

Thunder roared outside - Phillip had failed to notice the storm getting stronger - and P.T. jumped. Phillip clung to him tight, alarmed to feel that he had started to tremble and shake again.

"Phin," he whispered, holding him, sliding one hand down to hold P.T.'s hand. "It's all right. It's just thunder."

"It rained," P.T. said. Phillip used his free hand to wipe at the man's tears as he spoke. "It rained the... the night she died."

Suddenly, the man's strong dislike of rain made much more sense. Phillip lowered his eyes again, ashamed. He'd never known that about P.T., but if he had quit thinking about himself and just _asked_ —

"It was raining and I...I was w-with her. Alone. We were waiting for help, waiting for Papa to come back from the storm, but..."

The way he said 'Papa' made Phillip shudder - the man fifteen years his senior suddenly sounded like a scared eight year old boy again. He lifted P.T.'s face and kissed his cheeks, his nose. He tasted the salt of the older man's tears and closed his eyes, pulling away just slightly to ask his next question.

"How?" he whispered. "How did she—"

P.T. yanked away (Phillip heard a _thud_ as he banged his leg against his desk) and shook his head violently. Eyes wide and alarmed, Phillip tried to get him to calm down.

"It's okay," he assured P.T., "you don't have to talk about it. I promise. I'm sorry for asking. Please, it's all right."

He nuzzled his face into P.T.'s neck and kissed the soft skin there. P.T.'s hands shook as he brought them up to Phillip's back, holding him to his chest. The younger man could feel the trembling fingers through his shirt and cuddled closer. P.T. still had tears on his face, his hands still trembled, but his breathing slowly evened out as he focused on the task of talking.

"The cabin we lived in burned down shortly after she - after she died," he confessed. "Papa and I were left with... left with nothing."

Phillip inhaled sharply. P.T. had never mentioned anything about a _first_ fire.

He lost it, then, and began to cry. Startled, P.T. jerked back and held him at arm's length, his own eyes still watery.

"Phillip, darling, what are you—"

"I'm sorry," Phillip choked. "I'm sorry for crying, when this should be about you. But I - oh God, _Phineas_."

"Wh-What—?"

"Everything!" Phillip cried. He hid his face in P.T.'s chest, too afraid to look at him. "You know all about my parents. All about the hell that I—"

He realized that he was derailing, about to make it all about him again, and quickly backtracked.

"But you've never talked about your mother," Phillip whispered. He turned his head to the side and stared at the wall, still too cowardly to look up into P.T.'s eyes. "Truth be told, I'd practically forgotten the thought of you even having one. I'm so sorry. I—"

"Phillip—"

"No! Don't make excuses for me, Phineas, please. I've been self-absorbed and selfish about my own childhood, I don't - I didn't—"

"Phil—"

"I didn't - I didn't even know her _name_ before today, P.T. I'm sorry."

"It's not that big a deal," P.T. whispered. "It's all right, Phillip. You just - you just caught me at a... bad time. You weren't supposed to see—"

"Not a big deal?" Phillip's voice cracked again and he winced, but forced himself to look up at the ringmaster. "P.T., you were _orphaned_ by the time you were fifteen."

P.T. flinched. It was quick, it was slight - but it was there.

And it devastated Phillip Carlyle beyond words.

"I'm so sorry," Phillip whispered. Shakily, he got out of P.T.'s lap. "I - I should have realized how much you were bottling up inside." He wiped at his eyes. He hated the fact that he was crying, making this all about him yet again. "P.T., you deserve - you deserve someone so much better."

"What are you... What are you saying, Phillip?"

"I didn't even know her _name_ ," Phillip choked. "P.T., I love you, but I - I didn't even know your mother's name. I didn't know that you lived in a cabin. I didn't - I didn't..." His words trailed off and the room swirled around him. He shook his head, attempting to regain focus. "P.T., you deserve... you deserve someone who isn't so... so _fucking_ ,"

P.T.'s eyes widened. Outside of their couplings, he'd never heard Phillip cuss before.

"absorbed in himself that he can't tell when the l-love of his life is hurting. You d-deserve..."

Phillip paused. He pressed a hand to his forehead as he took a deep breath.

"You deserve someone that can light up your world just as much as you can light up mine," he finished in a whisper.

Phillip turned away, finally letting the tears fall as he approached the doorway. His head hurt like hell - he needed a goddamn drink. But before he could even leave the office, he felt a hand around his arm, pulling him back.

"What did you call me?" P.T. breathed as he pulled Phillip against his chest. His eyes were still teary, but he managed a small, wobbly smile as Phillip turned to face him.

"I—" Phillip fumbled for speech, managing to choke over the words. What a perfect playwright he was. "Phineas, I d-don't—"

"Phillip," P.T. started, holding the younger man's face with love and tenderness. Phillip's eyes were dark and wide as he looked up at him. "Any man... any man that calls you the love of his life deserves complete and total honesty."

P.T. kissed him then, his lips soft and warm against Phillip's. Phillip closed his eyes and clung to P.T. tight, never wanting to let go, not even when they pulled away.

"I'm sorry for not telling you about my mother," the ringmaster spoke, running a finger underneath one of Phillip's red-rimmed eyes. His eyes looked like a hazel duplicate. "It wasn't because of you, Phillip. Please get that silly idea out of your head."

"You're the one with the silly ideas," Phillip muttered. Despite himself, P.T. grinned. But the grin quickly fell and he sighed as he glanced over at the picture once more.

"That picture is the one thing we managed to save from the fire, and that's only because it was used for her funeral."

"You remember her funeral?" Phillip asked.

P.T. nodded. "There are... things that I've never been open about with anyone," he admitted, "not even Charity. After my father died, it was just me and my mother's picture for the longest time and I kept the closest, most personal things to myself. The circus helped open me up some, but... some things are buried deep inside for so long that you just can't bear to bring them out into the open again. Not even when you have a pretty, blue-eyed apprentice,"

" _Partner_ ," Phillip scowled.

"ready and willing to listen," P.T. finished, grinning. He pulled Phillip closer and inhaled deep as he buried his nose in the younger man's hair.

"Still," Phillip sighed, stepping back. "I... I focus too much on myself, and I'm sorry. You've never liked the rain. I should've noticed—"

"Today," P.T. interrupted with a sigh. He stared down at the floor, "is the anniversary of her... her passing."

Phillip's eyes widened. P.T. looked up at his horror-stricken expression and nodded.

"That's why I... didn't come down for breakfast. I'm sorry. I know it's an unhealthy way to cope, but - well, you've always had an outlet for pain, Phillip. You have your plays and the ability to bleed on paper. My... matters are much too dreary for the circus to deal with."

P.T. looked down again, despite himself. Phillip's expression softened and he reached out, grasping P.T.'s hand in his.

"You have me," he promised. "From now on - you have me."

P.T.'s smile then was the most heartwarming thing Phillip Carlyle had seen in his life. The ringmaster sat in his chair again and gently picked up the picture of his mother. Phillip lowered himself into the showman's lap and laid his head on his shoulder.

"Tell me about her," he requested.

And so P.T. did.

***

The next time it rained, Phillip was prepared. Thunder roared and crackled outside as they ate hot breakfast in bed.

Afterwards, P.T. laid with his head on Phillip's bare shoulder as he spoke of the wooden toys and little knick-knacks his mother used to make him.

 


End file.
